Two Swords The Calling: Prologue

A Tale Told Many Times

The humidity hung upon the air like a damp blanket as the farmers toiled in the rice fields, their wide brimmed conical hats keeping the oppressive sun at bay. Just beyond their bounty the village stood, like all farming villages it was a modest affair of small minka styler houses, and had just as many farm animals as villagers.

The smith plied his trade as he hammered out sickles, the older women swept their porches, while upon the hill the shrine maiden tended to her pagoda roofed domain. Despite the hard work all were engaged in, it held a rustic charm, a serenity in simplicity.

But the serenity was quickly shattered with the thunderous roar of horses hooves. Every head turned to the sound like a frightened horse, and faces darkened. They were going to have visitors - unwelcome visitors.

At the head of the procession on a large black horse was a man clad in a black helmet and armor of hardened lacquer, looking every bit the part of a samurai. The villagers, however, knew he was no honorable warrior - this was a ronin. The rest of the company of horsemen were a hard-looking lot. Many wore bits and pieces of armor - remnants of their time as fighting men of the feuding shoguns, or stolen from fallen warriors. Swords, bows, lances... they were all armed, and all wore the leers of those that revel in lawlessness.

The villagers didn’t dare move as the band of men thundered into their village and pulled their horses to a halt. The leader was first to dismount and gave but a flick of his wrist to command his men. They set about their work rounding up chickens and stuffing them into burlap sacks. They pilfered eggs, bales of rice, and helped themselves to the well.

The headman of the village approached the ronin, his dark hair turning white, his face wrinkled and darkened from toiling in the sun. The ronin offered a bow that was halfheartedly returned, before the man doffed his helmet.

His hair was coal black, a thin mustache upon his lips, and a long scar on his cheek. He flashed a smile of white teeth. His friendly visage did little to endear himself to the headman, and his hand never seemed to stray far from the katana in his daisho set.

“Hachiro, how are you my friend?” the ronin spoke, the voice dripping with condescension.

“Kenji, we weren’t expecting you so soon.”

Kenji smiled that predatory smile again. “I love your village Hachiro. So accommodating - so simple. If only there were more like it in these lands. I can always rely on your people to pay tribute.”

The outlaw strode to a table beneath the shade and helped himself to a skin full of sake. Hachiro clasped his weathered hands in front of him, his knuckles white. His eyes followed Kenji, who lounged at the table like the noble lord that he wasn’t.

Kenji kept speaking “I can’t begin to tell you how much some poor fools will fight just to not part with a few trinkets. But they belong to us now.”

Hachiro spoke, “Perhaps when you’ve had your fill of valuables you’ll have no need to come back to our village?”

Kenji slapped Hachiro across the face, hard.

“Hachiro! You wound me. Is that ungratefulness I hear? I would hate for your village to fall prey to some... less merciful band.”

One of the bandit’s chuckled as he stuffed another squawking chicken into a sack. The sound grated on the villagers' ears. Kenji looked about and smirked.

“You wouldn’t want something to happen to the women would you? We do get lonely you know?”

Hachiro grimaced and Kenji knew he had him where he wanted him.

“I knew you’d see reason.”

The shrine was a place of refuge and reflection, a symbol of faith amid the trials of the land. Its weathered red gates stood tall, flanked by stone fox guardians. Inside, the shrine maiden Midori stood before the altar, her hands clasped tightly around her ritual staff. Her knuckles were pale, her calm expression faltering as the sounds of the bandits' arrival echoed faintly up the hill.

Midori was a striking figure in her crimson hakama and pure white kosode, a stark contrast to the lush greenery of the hillside. Her long black hair was tied back with a red ribbon, and a faint sheen of sweat glistened on her brow, though whether from the heat or her rising anger was unclear.

Beside her, an elder monk with a shaved head and bent back adjusted his prayer beads. "Midori," he said gently, "breathe. Anger clouds the mind, and we must remain steady for the sake of the villagers."

Midori's jade-green eyes flashed. "Steady? Every time that brigand shows up he demands more than last time. The villagers are barely getting by supporting those men. Sooner or later Kenji will take it all.”

Midori watched as Kenji mounted his black horse.

“Farewell. We shall return in two month’s time, and we expect a warm welcome and plenty of provisions.”

The words seemed to be the absolute last straw for one of the villagers who grabbed a sickle and charged the ronin. He didn’t get close as an arrow from a yumi bow pierced his heart.

The man let out a dry gasp and pitched forward into the dirty street.

Kenji shook his head. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

Midori moved forward her eyes blazing with anger as she moved forward.

“No Midori!” the monk stopped her. “You’ll only get yourself killed!”

Kenji made a gesture to his men and the entire band began to ride away, leaving kicked up clods and heartbreak behind. Midori ran to the stricken villager finding his grieving widow already at his side.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

After Midori had seen to the passing of the deadman’s spirit she returned to the shrine her face full of anger.

She turned to face the elder, her tone sharper than she'd intended. "Is this what the kami wish for us? To bow and scrape while thieves plunder the land?"

The elder exhaled slowly, resting a gnarled hand on her shoulder. “The kami test us in many ways. This suffering will pass.”

“When?” Midori snapped, pulling away. She paced the room. “They come earlier and take more each time. What will happen when there is nothing left to give? Will the kami watch as the village starves? As our maidens are defiled?”

The elder's gaze grew heavy, but he said nothing.

Midori stopped and turned toward the open doorway, where the village rooftops peeked through the treetops. “We need help. Real help. Not prayers.”

“And where will you find such help?” the elder asked, his voice as steady as a mountain stream. "The land is full of war and ruin. Few would risk their lives for our humble home."

Midori's lips pressed into a thin line. “Then I will go,” she said finally, her voice resolute. “If no one will come to save us, I will seek them out.”

The elder sighed, sensing her determination. “Do not act rashly, child. We must honor the traditions.”

Midori turned, her expression softening slightly. “I honor the traditions, Master, but our duty is also to protect the people. If the kami cannot intervene, then I will find others who can.”

The elder watched her in silence for a long moment, then nodded slowly. He looked distant as if he was seeing something that others could not. “Yes, I see.”

He turned to Midori, “This is a tale told many times across time and the planes. A people beset by oppressors in need of warriors.”

Midori tilted her head. “How does it end?”

“Hmm, the goal is achieved, but not without great cost usually. Go child, you have my blessing.”

Midori nodded. “I shall leave immediately.”

The elder nodded, his weathered features creased with concern. “A moment before you leave, child. The roads are treacherous. Kenji isn’t the only bandit out there, armies wage war across the land, and yokai stir in the shadows. Take the shrine’s kodachi. It has served the protectors of this place for generations.”

Midori inclined her head in a respectful bow. “Of course, Master. I shall keep it close.”

She moved with measured steps to a secluded altar tucked behind the main sanctuary. A shaft of sunlight pierced through the wooden lattice, illuminating the kodachi resting in a place of honor.

The kodachi was shorter than a katana yet longer than a wakizashi, striking a balance between reach and maneuverability. Its blade gleamed faintly with a silvery hue, a testament to the craftsmanship of the smith who had forged it.

Unlike the wakizashi, which often served as a companion blade, the kodachi had been designed for agility in tight spaces or as a primary weapon for those not encumbered by heavy armor. Its lacquered wooden scabbard bore an intricate design of swirling clouds, a symbol of divine protection, and its hilt was wrapped in crimson silk, faded but still vibrant.

Midori knelt before the altar, bowing deeply before she carefully lifted the weapon. It was lighter than she expected, its balance perfect in her grip. She slid the blade slightly from its scabbard, revealing a faintly etched hamon along the edge, resembling rolling waves. She allowed herself a moment to take in its beauty before securing it at her side.

“This blade has protected many before you,” the elder said, standing behind her now. His voice was soft but firm. “It is said to carry a fragment of the kami’s blessing. May it guard you against both the mortal and the unnatural.”

Midori rose to her feet, her resolve growing with the weight of the kodachi at her hip. “Thank you, Master.”

The elder watched her go, his expression heavy with pride and worry.